


Escape

by Cultivation



Series: Ashes [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Accidental Use of the Force (Star Wars), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anakin is dead you should be used to it at this point, Angst, Angst and Romance, Dialogue Heavy, Drunk Obi-Wan Kenobi, Drunken Confessions, Drunkenness, Heavy Angst, Hurt Obi-Wan Kenobi, M/M, Obi-Wan Kenobi Needs a Hug, Obi-Wan Kenobi is a Mess, Padmé Amidala Lives, Padmé Amidala Needs a Hug, Past Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker, Pining, Post-Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith, Protective Darth Maul, The Dark Side of the Force (Star Wars), Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-06
Updated: 2021-02-06
Packaged: 2021-03-17 21:54:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29232621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cultivation/pseuds/Cultivation
Summary: While visiting a widowed Padmé on Naboo, Obi-Wan’s attention is scattered.His solution? Get very, very drunk.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Darth Maul, Padmé Amidala & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Padmé Amidala & Sabé
Series: Ashes [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2064831
Comments: 13
Kudos: 63





	Escape

**Author's Note:**

> This is VERY late and I apologize for it. Life has just been a lot lately but I've finally gotten around to finishing and editing and just being productive again. For all those who have waited, I finally deliver. There will be at least one more entry in this series so stay tuned!
> 
> As always, thanks to the wonderful talent, [skittykitty](/users/skittykitty/), for betaing! Seriously, go check out their fics. They never fail to delight me (even when I know nothing about the fandom).
> 
> Now, onto the fic!

The Lake Country of Naboo is serene at dusk. Glorious hillsides, plains of flowers, and sparkling waters surround the palace. A gentle breeze ruffles the hair on his neck. It is sickeningly romantic; it’s the same place Padmé fell in love with Anakin and Anakin fell in love with her. Obi-Wan can easily see it. Yet, hidden amongst the dark of night, aching loneliness resides. He can feel it within his soul as he enters and a handmaiden greets him. Her face looks familiar, but he couldn’t remember her name if he tried. She takes him to a dark room, illuminated with dim lamps and highlighted with crimson accents. He takes a seat on the stiffest chair. Faintly, the Force can be felt between the twins sleeping away. Obi-Wan sighs deeply, still unsure if he should have accepted Padmé’s invitation as he sits and awaits her arrival.

Padmé doesn’t get many visitors. He supposes this is because of the disgrace of having a Jedi’s children. While not public, the information had seeped its way to the Senate floor. Her years as a Senator were forfeit to rumor and she was in no position to discount them; they were true, after all. As such, this visit felt more like an obligation than a meeting between colleagues. They certainly weren’t friends, despite all of their dealings. He knew she was the one Anakin loved and married in secrecy. He knew her as an honest politician— a rarity amongst the sea of corruption in the Senate. But, beyond that, she was the mother of Anakin’s children and he has a duty to watch over them. Obi-Wan drags his hand across his face. 

Perhaps this would feel more necessary if his mind wasn’t mewling over his last interaction with Maul and how closely he had come to being expelled from the Order. He’d done something so very stupid just to— to what exactly, he still isn’t sure. To _please_ him is one course of thinking that Obi-Wan doesn’t like to entertain. To compare him with other… _lovers_ leaves him feeling empty. No one has made him feel the way he does when he’s with Maul. There is no equivalent and love is a word he’s only ever known in the platonic sense. He finds himself asking questions a Jedi never should. 

When the very idea of his touch reduces him to ash and the mere brush away of hair leaves him craving something more,— something he cannot begin to know— is that what it means to be attracted to another? To feel so intrinsically tied that being apart feels disheartening? To long for that person to acknowledge it and share it? To feel numb in the presence of things that used to matter? His grief contributed to his attachment, he is sure. Without Anakin’s death, he’s not sure where he’d be— where any of the Jedi would be. Despite all the pain and suffering of his loss, he is starting to prefer this outcome. If only to know this feeling of elation in the firestorm. If only to know—

“Hello, Obi-Wan.” His head snaps to her in an instant. Padmé stands idly, dressed in formal wear, and strains himself to smile. Dark circles mark beneath her eyes. He didn’t see her enter. Obi-Wan was too absorbed in his own thoughts to even acknowledge her. 

“I’m sorry, Padmé. My head—” He makes the motion to stand but halts with a wave of her hand. 

“Sit down, Master Jedi. I, too, have much on my mind as of late. It is nothing to be sorry about.” Obi-Wan listens and sits back down in the chair. At the doorway, her handmaiden resides and Padmé turns to her briefly. “Will you summon some tea for us, Sabé?”

“Yes, m’lady.” The handmaiden, Sabé, leaves without another word. His eyes follow her exit curiously.

“She was my decoy when Palpatine ordered the blockade on Naboo,” Padmé supplies, sitting down on the sofa adjacent to him. Obi-Wan nods numbly. “She is a dear friend of mine. I am not sure how I would handle the children without her.”

“It is good you have friends like that,” he mumbles. 

“Do you— do you have someone like that, Kenobi?” she asks. “Ahsoka told me you’ve been distant.” His stomach sours at the memory of their last encounter. Distant isn’t the word he’d use for it. He was slowly disconnecting from everything else and connecting himself to Maul. Dangerous is a better word for what he has been doing.

“Did she now?” says Obi-Wan shakily. “I’m afraid my… engagements have left me rather gouged for time.” Padmé’s brows furrow in irritation.

“Has the Order already tasked you with missions? Have they no sense? Anakin was _your_ Padawan. You should be given time to grieve.” Obi-Wan practically shudders at his name alone. He licks his lips and smiles faintly.

“No, it is— uh— a _personal_ engagement.” Her brow arches upward.

“Personal?” she questions. A smirk plays across her tired face. “Why, Obi-Wan, do tell. Whom is this _engagement_?” He swallows harshly, suddenly unsure how much he should reveal to her (if anything at all). He cannot speak to her loyalty or what she will think of him but, she might offer insight where Obi-Wan has none. Just then, Sabé returns with a delicate-looking pitcher and two cups. She sets them on the table between them and promptly departs. His hands rush forward and fumble to grasp the pitcher. Padmé looks on with noticeable concern. “Obi-Wan, who is it?” His grip on the pitcher becomes death-like. His eyes meet hers.

“I can’t tell you.” He tips and pours the tea into his own cup. Padmé offers out her cup. 

“Another Jedi then?” she asks. His hand trembles for a few moments. Flashes of their lightsaber battle come to mind. The image of Maul with Anakin’s saber— pointed at his neck, ready to strike but refraining— hurts his head to even think about. Why didn’t he kill him, right then and there? Quickly, he recovers and banishes the question from his mind. He pours tea into Padmé’s cup. 

“No,” Obi-Wan mutters.

“A politician?” He sighs bitterly and meets her eyes reluctantly.

“Please, Padmé. I… I cannot speak of it.”

“Alright,” she mutters. Obi-Wan picks up the pitcher just before the tea spills over and places it back onto the table. An awkward lull envelops the room tightly. He wants to say something of use, something— _anything_ — to end the silence. But, nothing comes to mind that isn’t related to Maul. He supposes he could talk about his trouble with the Council. In the vaguest of terms, he could step around Maul’s involvement. Obi-Wan sips at his tea, taking in the hot liquid cautiously. Maul didn’t have to be mentioned. It was a mild topic that he could pretend to be heated about. It was a good topic to— “Your hair has gotten longer.” 

_“It looks… good on you.”_

Obi-Wan drops the cup. It clatters and spills on the intricate rug beneath his feet. He feels the hot tea burn his skin and the burn is unpleasant— not like the burn of _him_. This hurts, but he _deserves_ to hurt. It only makes him numb to his reality. After all, he barely feels anything these days but Maul and his witless, foolish, raging inferno of—

“Obi-Wan!” Padmé exclaims. She sets down her cup on the table and pulls up at her dress. “Sabé!” Her handmaiden comes swiftly to her aid, standing in the doorway. “Can you get us something to clean this up, please?”

“Of course,” she remarks.

“Thank you,” Padmé calls. Sabé disappears from the doorway. A shuddering sigh escapes her as she turns back to Obi-Wan. Suddenly, he finds reality returning to him in the form of embarrassment. “Are you well?”

“I’m— I’m so sorry, Padmé. I’m not sure—”

“It’s fine, _really_. But, you must tell Obi-Wan… is something wrong? You’ve looked ill ever since I saw you sitting here and now you can barely hold a _cup_ steady.” He reaches up to his beard and twirls the hair above his lips. A deep sigh and the flutter of eyelids accompanies his honesty.

“No, I— I don’t think I am.” Sabé returns to them and hands Obi-Wan the rag. He immediately takes to absorbing the cooling tea with the cloth. “I think I might require a drink.” Before she leaves, Padmé nods to Sabé. 

“What is troubling you?” she asks. Sweat begins to develop on his temple. “Besides—” Wanting to talk about anything but Anakin, he chooses the unsavory truth.

“It’s _Maul_.” In a flash, Padmé pales. 

“Oh, is this about Satine—”

“No,” Obi-Wan blurts. “I— I’ve been seeing him, in prison.” Different and distinct from any other emotion she’s displayed, Padmé quiets. It’s something he has never known her to be. Even as a young Queen, she was outspoken and ensured her voice was heard. So rare was it to stun her to silence. Obi-Wan isn’t sure if he should take it as an honor or an insult. 

“Why?” she asks. It’s a valid question but one Obi-Wan cannot begin to answer. Sabé arrives with a bottle of _something_ and leaves just as abruptly. Obi-Wan allows himself little delay in grasping the neck and popping the cork.

“It’s complicated,” he mutters. 

“Yes... so it seems.” Obi-Wan pours a finger of liquor in the same cup as his tea. Padmé eyes him incredulously. “What do you gain from his company?” Before downing the shot, he pauses to answer.

“Distraction. Peace of mind.” He swallows through the burn of it down his throat.

“You don’t seem at peace,” Padmé remarks. “You rather seem distraught, Master Jedi.”

“That is one word for it,” Obi-Wan says coyly. She leans forward, a note of concern spreading across her features. It is easy for him to imagine Anakin falling in love with her. Her abundant compassion rises above any indifference. It is a trait he knows Anakin admired in her.

“Obi-Wan, has he hurt you?”

_“Stop it.”_

_“I’m— I apologize—”_

_He has burned me._

“I don’t quite know how to answer that,” he admits. “Not… _exactly_. Not as you would think.” His hand reaches for the bottle once more and tips more than a finger in the cup.

“Explain it to me,” she says. Padmé crosses her arms. It’s an impossible demand. He cannot put into any semblance of words what Maul does to him. Only in flowery language and metaphors does he find anything akin to the overflow of stimulation and the rapid beating of his heart when he gets close. Nothing else feels right. Nothing else _feels_. He downs and pours another shot.

“No matter how hard I have tried, I cannot rid him from my mind. He follows me.”

“Sounds awful—”

“But… he makes me feel _something_ , and I don’t want to lose that.” He sighs heavily and tucks a strand of hair behind his ear; the action is intrinsically marked by Maul now. It’s almost comforting— a reminder he is not far away.

“Perhaps it is best to distance yourself, Obi-Wan. I know better than anyone how losing Anakin might make you vulnerable to—”

“Not vulnerable,” he mumbles between drinks. “Maul— he doesn’t have any damn reason to be _nice_ to me.” Her eyes cautiously eye him as he takes another shot.

“Obi-Wan,” Padmé speaks gently. “I don’t think you should be drinking this much.”

“I’ll need five to get through tonight,” he mutters. Her mouth drops open in shock. The realization of what he has said seems to hit him twice as hard.

_I’m awful._

“I’m— that was callous— rude... I apologize.” A blank expression crosses her face; it’s the same one she wore to Anakin’s funeral… as she stared at his burning body turning to ash. Padmé nods in his direction, stands, and turns her back to him. He studies her with a quiet fascination.

“Does he make you feel like you can’t breathe?” she asks suddenly. “Like you can’t speak?” Obi-Wan cannot bear to answer these questions. Instead, he pours out another shot. “I felt like that with Anakin.”

His grip stills. If he weren’t sitting, he might just fall. Padmé, undeterred by Obi-Wan’s silence, continues.

“He used to make me feel so warm” — her crossed arms reach her shoulders — “that I thought I might burn up.” He sets down his cup on the table.

“Padmé—” She turns to face him. Tears are in her eyes, making her face flushed.

“You feel that way with Maul, don’t you?” She wipes away roughly at her eyes. “ _Don’t_ you?” Obi-Wan licks his lips. The heavy, empty, and hollow void creeps back to the surface. He shouldn’t have stood up; his knees feel as though they could cave in at any second. Numbness presides. The urge to be honest with her— with anyone— overpowers anything else.

“Yes,” he whispers gently. 

“I suspected it was someone when you dropped the cup. It’s such a stupid thing, _love_ is.” Instantly, he is caught with her words. Her insight offers him nothing he hadn’t already known; he just didn’t want it to be true. It means much more than distraction and temporal comfort. Had Obi-Wan ever known anything to be permanent? Perhaps, permanency is part of the allure. But, why it’s alluring to think, touch, and be near him is beyond coherency… and undeniably a part of their relationship. He wants to retain what they had before, simple understanding and shared respect— and yet, it has never been like that. It’s a bitter, little lie Obi-Wan has told himself. Padmé has merely torn at the gauze to show the scar. But, still, he insists there is not a mark on his skin— he insists there is not a deep fissure on his very being; all he has left is the weak shreds of denial.

“Padmé, it’s not—”

“Go home, Obi-Wan. You might crash into the temple if you drink anymore.” She chuckles lightly, but there is no humor in it. He nods, solemn; he doesn’t bother telling her the alcohol doesn’t affect him. Besides the stumble of his legs and the stench of it on his breath, his mind is starkly sober.

“Very well,” he says. Obi-Wan steps back, swerving on his heels and standing in the doorway. Briefly, he turns back. “I wish I could have been a better Master to him.”

“You owed him as much,” she mutters. Her voice is bitter and stricken with grief. Her body, beneath the formal dress, trembles. Her admission is enough to make him light-headed. Staying here any longer might just kill him— with the numbness, the emptiness, and the cold.

“Goodbye, Padmé.”

He leaves promptly before she can utter a word in his direction. Exiting the palace grounds, the cool Naboo breeze feels more like the snowstorms of Ilum. He hops in his ship and takes off into lightspeed as fast as he can. To escape the cold, the truth, and the bitter realization. Padmé told him to go home, but the temple is far from a comforting thought in his mind (and it has been a long time since he’s considered it _home_ ). He redirects a course to Stygeon Prime. The trip there is filled with nothing but the aggravating invasion of memories he wants to forget. Naively, he thought Maul would fix them. Now, he sees that he merely ails it.

Nothing— no one— can _fix_ the past. 

Obi-Wan lands near the Spire. For the first time, it isn’t snowing. The air is brisk yet tolerable to the normal freeze that occupies the planet. He trudges through the hardened snow gracelessly. By the time he reaches the complex, he feels so faint he might fall over. The guards are not the same ones he usually sees; _usually_ , he comes here at a reasonable time. Force knows what time it is now. He greets and passes them all the same. Bitterly, he thinks he hears one of them greet him with _General_. Obi-Wan rushes to the security gate and the officer— different from the one he tricked, a Twi’lek woman— eyes him oddly. 

“T—Two-two-three-seven,” he slurs. The officer regards him and he rushes through the security scan. A loud beep startles him. 

“Step back, sir.” It is then that Obi-Wan remembers the alcohol running through his veins. He swallows harshly. 

“Please,” he mumbles. It’s so quiet it can hardly be heard. She grimaces, tone sharp.

“Jedi do not get special privileges, _General_.”

_“General Kenobi_ —”

_“Master Kenobi—”_

_“Obi-Wan—”_

_“Tell him I loved him.”_

_You were my brother, Anakin. Why couldn’t you just stay? Why did you have to go?_

It’s a mistake. He doesn’t even notice what he’s doing before he does it. It doesn’t even seem to register. All he knows is the feeling of nothing; the feeling that everything is void. It feels like a friend at first. Acceptance of precisely what his training had taught him to fight against, to resist. Giving in to the whispers of affirming humiliation— _I am no Jedi, no Master, no friend._ He listens to them and attunes himself to the suffering and the fear— _I will always lose them and I cannot save them._ He feels the slip of control next. His emotions give way to an illicit power he has never felt before. Strong, overwhelming, and brimming with potential. At his fingertips, just beneath the surface— _but, maybe… I can save him._ Prevailing in the expanding cloud of darkness, he reaches out and unlocks the key to strength. 

The officer is flung across the security booth, back slamming against a panel of controls. Obi-Wan snaps his head to her. His body is still at first, taking in what he has done with horror. He rushes over to her and checks her pulse. Her heart still beats and her lungs still breathe and her still chest rises and falls— he hasn’t killed her; she will live. But, he cannot go back from this. The Council won’t excuse this and neither will the Republic in its state of affairs. His fellow Jedi and his friends wouldn’t understand how this grief has spiraled and warped him irrevocably. Ahsoka had predicted this in a way. Her fear of his fate was justified. Perhaps, if he had indulged her instead of pushed her away, he would have faired better. Perhaps, if he never met with Maul, he would be a better Jedi. But, a Jedi he is no longer. He has allowed his attachments to cloud his vision, to secure his instability, and to ensure his fall to darkness. No matter how brief, Obi-Wan cannot take back his actions— his treason.

His life is over as he knows it.

He stumbles back, body wracked with the consequential emotions. He knows what he needs to do now. There is only one course of action. He can only hope it is better than this. Calling to the Force,— the _light_ — he tries to reach for the control panel to which she was thrown. Obi-Wan struggles to pinpoint it at first. His connection is damaged and in disarray. It’s purely a miracle that he seemed to find the right one. 

Was this how Anakin felt, constantly staring over the precipice of the dark side, nearing close but never falling?

Obi-Wan moves unsteadily, knowing it won’t be long until he collapses. Shuffling through the scan and past cells, he feels the heaviness grow stronger with every step. The only thing keeping his body moving forward is the man who got him here— the Sith who played vicious little games. He can only pray that it wasn’t all in jest. He can only pray this wasn’t all a cruel joke. And when his head feels heavy and his legs give in to the weight, he can only pray Maul is who he believes.

* * *

In the depths of sleep, it takes a few moments before he is awoken. 

His dream is strange. He has never had dreams; Jedi were told to ignore them for favoritism within the Order of the Living Force rather than the Unifying. It was an obvious miscalculation, one they narrowly paid for with their lives. In the dream, he sees Maul standing close by yet just out of reach. He is muttering— pleading— to someone, back turned. His emotions reverberate strongly in the Force. Rage, passion, and _fear_ are tethered to him. His hushed words are warped in with what seems to be water. 

_Could he be drowning_? 

Obi-Wan, in an infinite-stretching galaxy, walks towards him. His footsteps have ground despite no difference in scenery or shadow; it’s as if he is walking on an invisible bridge. Maul remains whispering unknowable words to the galaxy. So desperate and vital is the need to reach him— to hear his words and understand them. His presence in the Force is abnormal. The darkness doesn’t thrive as it would. Instead, something taints it. An unnatural entity attaches itself to him. It isn’t bad— it’s familiar.

_Hope. He has hope._

Obi-Wan wants to know what could give such a hopeless person hope. He wants to examine this. He strolls forward, with purpose. Stars glitter in the endless galaxy all around them. He is close, just an arm’s length away. Maul stops talking. His posture stiffens and he turns to him. His face is fretful, similar to someone he has seen before, and yet, he can’t remember her name here—

“Stupid, Jedi.” The admonishment is so soft it might as well be affectionate. Maul’s gaze is steady but hesitant; what he is afraid of, Obi-Wan couldn’t be sure. Maul’s trembling hand raises to his face. He does not flinch away from the closeness of his touch. If anything, Obi-Wan finds himself leaning towards it. His fingers graze hair and touch his scalp underneath soothingly. He wishes for that feeling to last a lifetime, an eternity. Then, abruptly, Maul retracts. There is an aching in his eyes. “I see your ship, Kenobi. We’re almost out of here.” Desperation fills him whole. Maul backs away from the precipice of the invisible walkway.

  
  


Obi-Wan reaches too far and too quickly; he loses himself.

His eyes flutter open. The familiar chill of hyperspace envelops his body. The shape of a distinct figure sits in front of him. Tattooed skin and dark robes make the figure recognizable. Obi-Wan’s vision focuses and he can recognize the ship— _his_ ship.

“Awake yet, Jedi?” His voice feels so wrong to hear this closely… to hear so _quietly_. He tries to pull at the memories, losing whatever he retained from the dream to his subconscious. Unpleasant images arise and nausea pools in his stomach. His body is still weak and the Force hovers above him. Obi-Wan cuts himself from it.

“I’ve done it,” he mutters. “Oh… oh, what have I done?” Maul shakes his head.

“What you had to. I… provided a suitable distraction to allow our escape.”

“What— what did you do? How did you—”

“I gave some much needed time outside for my fellow inmates.”

“Did you— did you hurt—”

“ _No_ ,” Maul whispers resolutely. Obi-Wan’s anxiety settles, if only a little.

_I believe you._

He swallows harshly, finding his voice ragged and hoarse. Obi-Wan runs a shaky hand through his hair. He has the words, but he isn’t sure they are the ones Maul is ready to hear. They’re much too raw and punctual for his taste. He is sure they will leave him feeling lost if given the wrong answer. Dangerous words— words that could very well tear at the fragile thread binding them together. But he needs to voice them, and he needs to hear answers.

“Will you stay with me?” Mockingly, Maul scoffs.

“Come now, Kenobi—” 

“No, please, _don’t_ leave me. Please—” Obi-Wan isn’t entirely sure what he was expecting from him but, before he can react, Maul reaches out his hand to graze his. Scalding Obi-Wan’s skin, his touch feels overwhelming. Dually, he could say it’s distracting; both are enough to simmer down the desperation and the discomfort alone, but Maul seems fit to use words.

“I’m not going anywhere, Kenobi.” His tone is level and soft all the same— something so assuring and certain in its truth. Obi-Wan accepts this answer as Maul pulls his hand away to pilot. There is a moment of silence in which Obi-Wan avoids acknowledging the touch and the way it lingers on his skin; the way it burns like fire and leaves him wanting more of it.

“Where— where are you taking me?” he asks. His speech is small and slow,— slurred even— but Maul can understand it.

“Dathomir,” he answers.


End file.
